Free Shooting Star by Cynthia Riggs Page B

about the creature stopping to pick them up. She handed the phone to Victoria. “He wants to talk to you, Mrs. Trumbull.”
    Smalley said, “Do you know anything about this Roddie character, Mrs. Trumbull?”
    “He’s Dearborn Hill’s nephew, Roderick Hill. He reads often at Island Java. His poetry is quite good.”
    “He have a job?”
    “He works at Rapid Express Agency at the airport.”
    “How old is the guy?”
    “Early twenties.”
    Smalley paused and Victoria could hear his swivel chair squeak. “Until I sort things out, can you put the girls up for a few days?”
    “There’s nothing wrong with Roderick that a few years won’t cure.” Victoria glanced over at the two girls and nodded. “But I’ll find room for them.”
    Tracy and Karen looked at each other and grinned.
    “Thanks, Mrs. Trumbull. We owe you. For accommodating Dr. McAlistair as well.” Smalley hung up.
    Lightning flashed, and an immediate clap of thunder rattled
the house. Karen put her hands over her ears. The lights dimmed, then brightened again. Rain slashed against the glass.
    Victoria got up again. “I’d better shut the windows before everything gets soaked.”
    “We’ll help,” said Tracy.
    They went from floor to floor, closing the old sashes.
    “The big attic has two more, but I’ll leave those open. There’s not much up there that rain can damage.”
    “We’ll shut them, if you’d like,” said Tracy.
    “Thank you. That would be nice.” Victoria opened the door to the steep attic stairs and the girls scampered up. They returned almost immediately.
    “The one in the room with the bed was already closed, Mrs. Trumbull,” said Tracy.
    Victoria thought about that for a moment. “My granddaughter must have shut it for some reason. What about the other window?”
    “That was open, but rain wasn’t coming in.”
    “Does someone sleep up there?” Karen asked.
    “Sometimes. Visiting great-grandchildren like to camp out in the attic.”
    “I didn’t realize you had a dog, Mrs. Trumbull,” Karen said.
    “I don’t have a dog,” said Victoria. She studied Karen and her unruly hair. “I have a cat. No dog would dare trespass on McCavity’s territory.”
    “Oh,” said Karen, sounding puzzled.
    “Let me show you your room.” Victoria opened a door leading off a small hallway and the girls peered in.
    “Awesome!” said Karen.
    “Wow,” said Tracy. “This house is huge! Two attics.”
    The small attic room over the kitchen was bright, despite the gloom outside. Two east-facing skylights looked out on dark clouds and the tops of wind-lashed trees. A window on the south overlooked the roof of the one-story cookroom. Rain streamed down the asphalt shingles. The bare boards of the ceiling
sloped steeply to low walls. A braided rug in shades of red, gray, and white covered most of the painted floor.
    Lightning flashed.
    Karen covered her ears.
    “Did your house ever get, you know, hit by lightning, Mrs. Trumbull?” asked Tracy.
    “Not that I know of.”
    Rain sheeted down the outside of the skylights.
    “We brought sleeping bags,” said Karen. “We can sleep on the floor.”
    “You won’t need to do that.” Victoria started down the enclosed staircase that led down to the kitchen, bracing her hands against the walls for support. “I have folding cots in the big attic. You can bring them down later.”
    “Can we move right in?” asked Karen.
    “Certainly.”
    “We don’t have a lot of money,” said Tracy.
    “We can work something out.”
    “Is someone else staying here?”
    “My granddaughter, Elizabeth, lives with me, and Dr. McAlistair will stay a few nights. She’s a forensic scientist.”
    “Forensic, like in somebody murdered?” asked Tracy.
    “Yes,” said Victoria. “Just like that.”

CHAPTER 10
    Dearborn Hill had run out of time. He’d given up hope of getting a substitute for the role of Frankenstein’s bride.
    A hell of a thunderstorm was raging, clanging, dimming lights,